Poems

Barbara Fisher: Two Poems

Sydney to Melbourne   If you didn’t have a “sleeper” on the old night train to Melbourne they called it “sitting up”,   whether or not you reclined with a cushion and a rug and a paper bag of sandwiches   to savour in the dark. Such was my childhood travel returning to boarding school,   sleeping, waking, sleeping and opening my eyes at dawn to bleached and empty paddocks   stained with rosy light and at melancholy intervals a litany of dark blue hoardings   advertising Dr Morse’s Indian Root Pills. What were they for?   And who was…

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